Prison Walls
by MonsieurMittens
Summary: Two years ago, John Watson was incarcerated for a slip up during his tour in Afghanistan. Two years later, a certain trouble-making man ends up in the same establishment as him, and the new inmate soon discovers what a powerful ally Watson can be.
1. Chapter 1

On June 18th, 2010, Captain John H. Watson was captured by four members of the Taliban whilst on a night raid on a terrorist-inhabited building on the outskirts of Kabul. He was held captive in a base two miles away from where he was originally kidnapped and stayed at the location for 3 days before breaking loose. He murdered the four Taliban goons who had shanghaied him in the cold-blood, taken their guns and extra ammunition, and began his day-long trek back to his platoon's base; where he murdered the rest of his team – four of them, mind you - because (quote) "They didn't protect me, so they won't protect each other any longer". When forces arrived at noon the next day, they found the sight of the Captain attempting to set the base camp alight by piling their stockpile of grenades and unloading the I.E.D.'s from the Humvee and dousing it in petrol. Forces took hold of him – by force – and shipped him off to home (London, England) where he was tried in court for homicide (specifically androcide), and sentenced to minimum 50 years in prison. He was then sent to the HM Prison of Wakefield, where he had now spent a miserable 2 years climbing up the 'corporate ladder' of said institute.

You could ask John if he regret what he did, and he'd glare at you, shrug, and go back to stuffing his canteen potatoes in his mouth. Inside, deep down in what the 'average' people had dubbed his 'murderous brain', he did regret it. He'd slaughtered his friends – no – his _brothers, _in the cold blood. His hands had been stained a dark crimson because shooting them was far too loud, stabbing them in the throat was far more effective; plus, he adored his knife.

There was Jason, they called him Jackoff, because he was a real klutz, the classic 'comic relief' guy. No matter how dismal your week had been, there'd be the five minutes where everyone had been pissing themselves because Jackoff had cracked out one of his smart-arse jokes when they were lounging about at the base.

Paul, _was_ the platoon's medic (John had originally been enlisted for that position, but soon swapped over after a long and tiresome chat with the head of the division). Big heart, he had. Always the legs, you could tell it was him because you'd see him running with his funny little bow-legs; the face of pure terror was also a dead give-away. He fixed everyone, anything. A few bandages, three stitches, and a needle full of a local anesthetic could make you shiny and new; although that didn't work when he choked on his own blood from a stab in the jugular.

Liam, oh what a precious jewel he'd been. John had always wondered why the hell he'd ever wanted to go into the army. He had a family, pretty wife name Ingrid and two little girls – Kimberly and Rebecca. He always had a picture of them in his left breast pocket of his uniform, right over his heart. Liam had always said that he'd want his death – if he had one out there – to be quick, and painless. So, being a supportive friend, John tried his best with that one. He saved him for last, and shot him straight through the head.

Harrison liked guns. He liked them a lot. Gun under the pillow when he slept, hand wrapped tight around it like his life depended on it. The man could shoot his way out of anything, and the crew called him Hawkeye because _damn_, that hulk of a human being could blast your head off before you bet him he couldn't. Clearly he didn't see his untimely death coming, either, and it was rather sticky with his blood spurting profusely.

There had been something dark and primal that had awoken in him when he'd been held captive in that dingy room. His friends had abandoned him; they'd fled and saved their lives before his. Why didn't they save him? All they needed to do was take out those nasty Taliban fuckers and get his sorry arse out of the semi-demolished kitchen before that damned van pulled up. It made him sick to his stomach to fathom the thought of abandonment in that wasteland, and knowing while he'd be alone and dying, his friends would be chortling along with Jackoff. Healthy, happy, and carefree.

* * *

There were rumours floating about the prison of some new inmate who'd been transferred. Big Ben said his name was Sherlock Holmes. Only here for a week, but John hadn't seen the elusive young man.

* * *

It was Sherlock's first week in prison, committed for a murder he was too drugged to remember. By now he was aware that dropping the soap was a very bad thing. Even though he'd only been there for seven days he was already being passed around like party favours. The prison slut, as the men called him when they'd had their way. Each man was worse than the man before him. Twice he'd been dragged away from his lunch and taken to the one loo with a broken camera and taken before he could scramble away. None of it was consensual, heavens no. It was rough and dirty, and no one would call him by his actual name. He'd heard a Susan, Yvette and Andrew (that man was obviously gay, he'd deduced, although there was the thought that maybe that was the former 'prison slut'). No matter who took him, they always muttered something about John Watson. Sherlock had heard about him, heard the whispers of his dominance and the power he held in this prison. He was highly respected by the other inmates for his 'creative mind' and if they were too stupid to realize his brilliance, they respected him for his fighting ability. To be honest, the 21 year old was excited to finally meet and bonk heads with this mythical man because maybe, if he was lucky, the first thing he wouldn't do to him was stuff his cock in his mouth.

It was the eighth day of his incarceration, and Sherlock had been at his usual table in the far corner, alone and at rest, eating his 'gruel', when a sandy-blonde haired man slid into the seat opposite Sherlock, plonking his tray down along with his bottom. Sherlock flicked his gaze upward, eyes scanning the man. Immediately, he knew exactly who he was. John Watson, it was him. Needless to say, the man that sat in front of him was not whom he'd been expecting. He looked… well, average; yet everyone cowered in fear. _Was this seriously their makeshift ruler? _

"You must be Sherlock," he greeted, picking up his black plastic fork and stabbing it into his peas. "I trust that you've been acquainted with my name?" John cocked a knowing brow at him.

"Mhm," Sherlock nodded, chewing disdainfully.

"Had a nice first week?"

Sherlock swallowed, letting out a soft chuckle, his eyes focussing on his tray. "Obviously not. It feels like it's been a century, and I've been raped far too many times for it to be 'nice'," he sucked in a deep breath, twiddling the fork between his fingers. "Please tell me you aren't coming over here to ask if I want a shag because I _most certainly do not._" With that John snorted, shovelling a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. He'd learnt to enjoy the potatoes, and if you asked politely, the man at the canteen would but just a tiny dollop of extra butter on them. Potatoes weren't exactly his favoured choice, but you were eating what you were given, or you went without.

"Mmph, 'hag? Nuh-uh," John gulped down the potatoes hungrily, "No, not _just _a shag. My mates – if you'd like to call them that – have said nothing but praise about you. Not only have they commented on how pretty your mouth looks," he laughed, "but a few have told me about that brain of yours." John raised pointed to Sherlock's forehead, his index finger rotating in small circles.

"I've the IQ of Einstein."

"I'll be the judge of that. I'm hoping that you'll accept my offer of companionship."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. Companionship? What did he think this was, some sort of stupid reality TV show that adolescents watched because it was 'thrilling'? There were no companionships in prison, there were cliques; if you weren't in the right one, you were mince-meat sooner or later. He didn't fancy having himself served as the special on Saturday evenings before the guards hauled out the TV and the men fought for a good seat when football came on. With a soft sigh, Sherlock locked eyes with the murderer and said, "Do extrapolate."


	2. Chapter 2

The prospects of John's 'proposal' to him during his lunch-hour were intriguing, to say the least. It was two parts; both a valuable friendship – Sherlock wasn't certain friendship would be the correct term – and an equally as valuable, and not to mention fulfilling, sexual relationship. Giving the nature of the men in this prison and despite how soft John appeared outwardly, Sherlock knew he wouldn't be getting away with no sex in this 'companionship'. Most of the inmates hadn't been out in years, and if they could find someone to pin up against the wall and fuck senselessly, then so be it. It was truly mortifying, and Sherlock had given his best shot at bringing up this startling discovery on his second day, after witnessing incredibly raunchy behaviour in the showers.

"Excuse me, but are you aware of the actions your… men are engaging in?" He'd asked, face flushed red and his hair still sopping wet. "My shower was rudely interrupted by two of them shagging on the bathroom tile. It's repulsive, and you must put an end to it immediately." The guard he was speaking to burst out in laughter, bending over and slapping his knee. Oh, so it was funny, was it? "Excuse me!"

"Hey, lad, just let them be. We've all blocked it out by now, it's perfectly normal."

"Perfe_- Perfectly normal_? Are you insane? They were biting each other like… like _savages!" _He'd cried, running a hand through his wet locks, droplets of water snaking down his face, "This is seriously fucked up." Instead of staying around to listen to the guard's speech, Sherlock stormed off to the bathroom to finish washing his hair in the sink; where he also got a taste of what he'd just witnessed.

* * *

Being _with _John would offer protection in this hell-hole. No more rape when he was trying to smoke outside, no more taunts of "Hey-ho, prison slut". No more fat, stubby fingers poking and prodding him when he made his way around the prison. It would be his warped version of paradise.

So, Sherlock took up John's offer and the pair quickly became friends; sitting together at their lunches, chatting about the outside and their previous interests before they were jailed. Never had the two murderers jumped on each other like rabid dogs – at least, not yet. John was controlled when it came to his urges, and young Sherlock wasn't going to force his companion into anything. Just because you're a murderer doesn't mean that you have to eliminate all of your etiquette and common courtesy.

"I was the best student in my year. So smart that they decided I could skip a year of university; much to my relief. Even being a year ahead wasn't a problem. Hell, I could have passed with my eyes closed. I'd sell my left leg to be there instead of here," Sherlock told John one afternoon while they were on the yard. "At least they're giving me fags here."

John nodded along with Sherlock's ramblings, his eyes scanning the courtyard lazily.

"This establishment is far better than some in the States, from what I've gathered. You've heard of Guantanamo Bay, right? Horrendous place. Apparently that's where they ship off some people; although I'm fairly certain that it's not for people like us; perhaps men – or women – who have much more awful felonies than you and I. They're downright savages."

John stopped walking, a look of utter disbelief on his face. "'_Much more awful felonies'? _Sherlock, I killed eight men. Is that not an 'awful felony'? According to everyone on the outside, I'm a sick, psychotic murderer who'll snap your head if you piss me off_. I'm_ a savage, Sherlock. I'm more dangerous than you, than all of these men combined. I could end your miserable little life with a fucking blade of grass." He raised a hand pointing to the younger man with a scowl, "I could be in that prison if they wanted me there. Don't fucking reason with me. Do you think I _want _to be here? Did you think I _truly wanted _to murder my platoon? Fuck no!" John shook his head at Sherlock and turned around, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. God, he felt like he was on fire. The careful and practiced hands of a soldier, made to protect and to serve, were also created for destruction. They balled into tight fists, John's nails digging into his palms fiercely.

"John, I didn't-"

"Shut up."

"_John."_

"Fuck off." With that the shorter man stormed off to the courtyard doors, and shook the handle roughly to get someone from the inside to open it, leaving Sherlock dumbfounded and alone.

* * *

That night, Sherlock had lain in bed pondering over John's unexpected outburst earlier today. Everything he'd said was laced with heavy remorse and regret, the words had stung both to hear and to say, Sherlock was sure. The way the ex-soldier had swept himself away from the scene sent a clear message that he was dissatisfied with what he'd done, but his shoulders had slouched and his body had clearly relaxed after he'd yanked on the door handle – so, despite his best intentions to remain in a froth of discontent he was… relieved that he'd gotten the burden off his chest. The balled fists represented contained anger and a sign that he had the urge to let off his steam on something – or someone. But not Sherlock, he had grown fond of him; too fond to let himself unleash his fury on him.

So what did John do? Did he choose to take out the rage on an inmate? No, that was out of the question. Even though he seemed to be a ruthless criminal, he wouldn't mess around with any of the inmates; he only ever touched the new detainees. But even if he did bash one of the new men, he wouldn't beat them senseless, that truly only occurred when they had got him worked up themselves.

Or maybe…

* * *

John couldn't help it. After Brant had let him in from the yard, he'd pushed everyone out of his way and stomped off to his cell, slamming the heavy steel door behind him. Just that bout had made him exhausted, and he merely wanted to let himself rot because the memories came flooding back.

Each of his comrades appeared in his head, grinning from ear to ear and carefree. His mind swam with their joyous pictures and snippets of memories, and then it would play through the gruesome murder of each of them. His brain tortured him further, pulling up the all too vivid replays of how the smell of the petrol and the bitter scent of the day-old blood. His insane laughter as the helicopter landed, four soldier cuffing him and dragging him off, body flailing weakly.

He was insane.

Wasn't he?

John collapsed onto his bed, body curling into a ball and he pressed his face into his knees. It was the first three months all over again. The last of his willpower dissolved and he let out a soft sob. You are insane, John Watson, the most insane man to ever roam the earth. A killer, a cretin. You are the mud on someone's new shoes, the rain on a couple's wedding day. The father that abandons his child. Imperfect, unwanted and reckless.

He's the perfect disaster.


End file.
